Hollow Man
by foggynite
Summary: "In this valley of dying stars, In this hollow valley, This broken jar of our lost kingdoms" Brad background fic.


oooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOO0000OOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooo  
  
Hollow Man  
  
by foggynite  
  
e-mail foggynite@hotmail.com  
  
Rating PG  
  
Summary: Brad becomes.  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, never and ever.  
  
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"This is the dead land  
  
This is the cactus land  
  
Here the stone images  
  
Are raised. . . .  
  
In this valley of dying stars  
  
In this hollow valley  
  
This broken jar of our lost kingdoms"  
  
"The Hollow Man" T. S. Eliot  
  
oooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOO0000OOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooo  
  
There was a time he wanted to be on a team, to be part of something bigger than himself and part of one whole. A cohesive unit, like a surrogate family, like the siblings he slowly forgot over time.  
  
He would sit on the dusty tundra rocks, watching the stars, wondering which were judge satellites and which were just self-consuming flames a million miles away. The cool, silent night prairie, a dry breeze heralding the scorching heat of day, and he didn't want to return to the rickety metal floors of the shelter. The children there mocked his hair, his bright blue eyes. Nomad, they whispered behind smudged little hands, chanted around him as he stood silently, stoically, in the midst of their taunting dances.  
  
Desert wanderer. Pagan freak. Half-breed.  
  
And he wished he could cast spells like they whispered he could, that he was from a tribe of desert magicians that followed the old ways and could curse them with vile diseases and bad luck. Could turn them all into little reptile zoids, like in the picture books at the shelter house.  
  
But he didn't know where he was from. Not anymore. At times, a stray thought would enter his mind, of his older sisters and the new flowers after the rains. That his brothers would like the empty husks of broken zoids just over the hill. But he couldn't remember their faces anymore, couldn't remember their names or favorite colors or who bunked in the bed overhead.  
  
It saddened him for a while, that he forgot who he was over time, like the wind smoothing the rocky buttes in the distance. Wearing and grinding down, and the other children weren't copper skinned from running in the sun all day, they didn't understand the urge to get away from the dark confines of the school. They were content to farm the small patch behind the shelter, grubby little fingers on little children hands that weren't thin and delicate like his. They didn't understand his fascination with the mechanics of the great zoids. They just dreamt of the glory and the fame and the cheering crowds loving them.  
  
He didn't want their attention. Didn't want their love.  
  
Instead, he dreamt of raging battles, the groaning of metal tearing at metal, and the shockwaves of an ion canon. The teeth-rattling repeat of a gun sniper. Charging fast, so fast he was pushed into his seat and had to grind his jaw to withstand the G-forces. Power and control at his fingertips, and he would love his zoid, his partner, and never need anyone else, except maybe a team to help him in battle.  
  
He always thought of the team as faceless, abstract shapes, sitting around a campfire at night, or racing next to him in the dusk. Just silent companions, who would let him be alone.  
  
Staring across the rocky terrain, he wondered if he would die should he just start to run, if he left this dreary place, this leaning massive building in the middle of nowhere. If he followed the night wind and hunted down a wild zoid to be his partner. He loved the old stories of when the zoids would respond and choose their partners, and they would never be apart.  
  
He liked his silence, his quiet away from the other children, but he was lonely in his solitude.  
  
Then the zoids came one day, heralded by a great cloud of red dust. A small parade, colorful and inexorably moving closer to the run down shelter as they were pulled on the flatbeds of powerful trucks. An Iron Kong, two Zaber Fangs, even a Blade Liger.  
  
And the children crowded to the windows, crowded to the rickety garden fence. He had been on the hill again, staring at the rusted ruins of a bygone era, and raced for the shelter doors. If he was close at hand, if he was quiet and well mannered and waiting to serve, he might be chosen to bring the refreshments. Guests in the desert wilds were always given refreshments.  
  
The caravan arrived, creaking to a halt with the smell of exhaust and dust and oil. He pressed himself to the small window beside the door, wanting to see everything but unwilling to give up his spot as the headmistress swept past the gathering children. Whispering children. Children in awe and slightly afraid, and he felt a new kinship with the zoids.  
  
The two men were in matching uniforms of black and grey, and he had never seen anything so neatly pressed before. Their hair was short, almost buzzed, and they walked in accord. He scooted closer to the door, tall for his age and sure to be noticed if they would just look his way, and the men passed by, boot heels echoing on the tarnished metal and concrete floors. The cloth of their black pants fascinated him, the tight weave and crispness made him long for something new, made him conjure an image of bright city lights from his memories.  
  
Another boy was chosen to help with refreshments, one who liked to push him and bite with little sharp teeth. He shrugged nonchalantly, pretending he didn't care, when the boy smiled his wicked smug smile and went with one of the older children to the kitchen.  
  
They always picked the cute ones to serve, and he knew he wasn't cute. He was the odd one, the freak, the scary desert half-breed child.  
  
Squeezing through a side door before the older children could start yelling, he ran around to the front, to the vast expanse of tundra spreading away from the shelter. He had to scrabble up a rocky slope to get a better view, but he could see the warriors making camp. They were unloading one of the Zaber Fangs, a bright burning yellow in the harsh sun, and he wanted, oh he wanted, so badly to go closer with every straining tendon in his body.  
  
The two men came out later, calling to their teammates, and the headmistress was smiling prettily around her rolls of fat and scraggly old dress. He didn't want to go down now, because she would pull him close and snarl with her breath that smelled like old onions and the compost heap in the garden, and he didn't want this moment to be ruined.  
  
They were beautiful. Shining and perfect and powerful. To control one of them would be. . . . amazing.  
  
He returned to the shelter house for dinner, stomach painfully empty and burning and protesting when the share on his plate was smaller than the rest. He ignored the slight, though, and ignored the other children as they scooted to the edge of their benches, glaring and daring him to choose their table, their group. A half-filled table and a spot away from the others, and he was content. He ate quickly, wanting to leave, needing to wash up before they could get to the basins and give him the dirtiest water.  
  
The warriors were at the head table, seated with the headmistress even though she only ever ate with the children when there were guests to entertain. Other children, with black and brown and blonde hair not some weird amber hybrid color, were bringing the plates and pitchers around. He wanted to speak with the warriors, just one, and learn how they found their zoids, how they found each other, and what he had to do to get one of his own because he would treat it so very well, and then he could hide in the desert for days without ever having to come to the cities or stations.  
  
But a crowd was already gathering, firing questions at the smiling faces of the warriors, and he couldn't help but wonder why the warriors were so happy to be besieged by those grubby hands and pouting perfect mouths. Why the crowd was clapping and jumping with near hysterics. The tables were murmuring some bit of news to each other, but he didn't want to listen and no one offered to share it with him.  
  
But he needed to get to the wash basins first, so that he could leave before he had to see them fight to not use the water he touched. Before he had to listen to their excited voices talking about how nice the warriors were, and how they got to talk to them, touch them, be near something they all wished to be.  
  
Something he might never be.  
  
The warriors were still there the next morning, zoids gleaming in the pink rays of dawn, and he was outside before the night's chill had left. He ran the steep incline to his perch on the hill, tucked away between the boulders and spying down on the awakening camp. Watching wide-eyed as two crawled from the cockpits of their zoids. Studying how they stretched and spoke in low tones to each other, worked around each other to start a fire, how they let one of the four sleep in later than the rest. It was a completely alien world to his own, and he wanted to be a part of it, a part of the whole, just once.  
  
The headmistress appeared once the warriors were finished breaking their fast, coffee cups held between their knees as they leaned forward to confer. He would have to go back inside soon, to finish his chores before the older children noticed he was gone, but he was rooted to his niche as a dozen children, ranging in age, were led from the shelter house.  
  
They were getting to touch the zoids. They were getting to divide up, three to each pilot, and look at the cockpits of each zoid. The warriors were letting them sit in the plush worn seats and look at the controls. It wasn't fair, and for once he wanted to be able to say something about it, to not ignore the slight. To hit and maim their pretty little faces.  
  
But he didn't. He just crawled deeper back into his shade, and stared as another group was led out. A whole 'nother dozen and that was most of the children. Any of the remainders were either too old to care, or too ill to be moved.  
  
This wasn't fair. Wasn't right. And now the first group was coming out again, still looking freshly scrubbed and in clean clothes, so he knew they hadn't done any chores that day. Hadn't had to, and he had had to, and no one had told him they were doing anything with the zoids. No one had let him know.  
  
They were standing off to the side now, watching as the other three zoids were unloaded to stand beside the first Zaber Fang. They were like a herd of frightened cattle, mute and wide-eyed and looking terrified but excited to be scared, and he just knew what was happening.  
  
The first three were taken up to the cockpits, allowed to sit in them and press buttons and secure themselves. To take a few tentative steps with the pilots right next to them and the leader down with the headmistress. He wanted to cry with frustration because he cared so much more than them, had waited so much longer, and the only cockpit he had ever been in was the rusted and gutted one nearly intact in the old liger over the hill. He had studied what was left of the controls, looked over the old books in the shelter, avidly soaked up anything to do with the zoids. His chest ached and he rubbed above his solar plexus.  
  
Each child was allowed to get in, to strap in and laugh delightedly or squeal with fear. Some were allowed to take a few steps, others were removed rather quickly. All he knew was that he wanted to go down and join them, but he was in his dirty clothes and his face was streaked with sweat and dust, and then they'd really call him a half breed, with his burning blue eyes and amber hair.  
  
Dusk came, a slow twilight, and the pilots were finished with both groups. The headmistress simpered and patted the leader on the arm, and the warrior didn't shrug her off.  
  
Normally he felt more at home when the sun went down. In the dark, no one could see what colors you were. The stars were above his head, and so were the judges, just waiting to crash down around him. But none ever landed this close to civilization, really.  
  
He had realized that they were testing the children, seeing who could pilot with any ease and who was too frozen to be trainable. They were probably going to make their selections that night, and leave the following morning. He didn't want them to go without having touched one zoid.  
  
All his short life, he could only remember having seen a zoid once before. It might have been his father's, or an elder brother's, or a distant relative's. He could remember the feeling of safety in it, the warmth of the cockpit wrapping around him like a cocoon. Tense excitement, laughter, a rise of anticipation for some great event. It felt like home.  
  
The moss covered, weather beaten metal of the old liger was merely a faint echo of that warmth. The empty shell was half-buried in the sand, missing any human's touch for centuries, maybe. Just slowly breaking down and waiting for the final collapse into the dirt and silt. It was hollow, though, because it was supposed to have that laughter in it too, only the anticipation was long past.  
  
So now he edged silently to the closest zoid, the Blade Liger, hoping the warriors wouldn't catch him and turn him in. He was probably going to be on double duty and restricted rations for weeks as it was for skipping the day's chores. The flickering campfire illuminated the faces of two warriors, so he assumed the other two were negotiating inside.  
  
The orange metal was cool to the touch now that the sun was going down, but it still retained the memory of sunlight and warmth underneath. He spread his small hand out across the surface, leaving a clear trail in the red dust accumulated on the leg. He felt so tiny and insignificant next to it, like the world was suddenly a bigger place than he had ever imagined. He wondered if this was what freedom felt like, to know that he could lope into that great expanse and disappear if he wanted to.  
  
"Can I help you, son?"  
  
The gruff voice panicked him, made him want to dart for the safety of the rocky horizon, but a meaty hand closed down on his shoulder with lightning fast speed, halting his retreat.  
  
"Calm down, kiddo. Just wonderin' if you should be out here, is all I meant."  
  
A deep breath and he worked up the courage to look at the man holding his arm. Purplish-silver hair and kind eyes greeted him, a smile that meant no harm, and he debated with his natural wariness on whether to speak. If he didn't, then he'd surely be escorted back to the shelter, and that was a humiliation he didn't need.  
  
"I'm always out. Here, that is. I wander." His words came haltingly, and he realized he hadn't spoken for a few days, besides "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am." He hadn't had a drink since that morning.  
  
"You from the shelter?" Again, a disarming smile, and he found himself responding truthfully.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Didn't see you out here this afternoon. Were you afraid to come out?" Teasing tone, but he responded indignantly.  
  
"No! I'm not afraid of nuthin'. I'm gonna be a great warrior." His eyes narrowed as a look of amused tolerance crossed the warrior's face.  
  
"You plannin' on winning the Royal Cup, huh?"  
  
"Whatever." He sneered. "I just wanna run."  
  
"Really?" The tone was more honestly interested now, intrigued almost. "Most boys your age want to win big, and you can't get much bigger than the Royal Cup."  
  
"I know that." He sighed heavily, as though explaining something that should be common sense even to a particularly dense adult. "Anybody can blow things up fast and anybody can race towards a spot. It don't take much skill to win the Cup if you got a lotta ammo. Me, I wanna be the best fighter out there, with the best zoid. Then I can get far 'way from everybody else, and nobody can catch me. I'll be the one findin' them."  
  
"You seem quite decided, then." He squinted up, gauging the veracity of the warrior's reaction. "How come you weren't out here earlier today?" A gentle, concerned tone, and he started to get that anxious feeling in his stomach.  
  
"I was. I was up there," he nodded towards the boulders. "Weren't invited down."  
  
"Everyone was invited. Have you ever been in a zoid before?" The warrior was leaning down to his level, but didn't have to bend very far. He had grown fast this past summer.  
  
"Once or twice."  
  
"How'd you like to hop in my liger here?"  
  
"Sure." He tried to keep his tone cool, but had trouble containing his elation. He didn't want to seem too eager.  
  
"Okay then. Let me tell my friends quick and then we'll head up."  
  
The warrior walked away for a moment, going back into the firelight. He jiggled a leg anxiously, wanting to at least get to sit in the cockpit before anyone from the shelter saw him and turned him in. When the warrior returned, the lariat-like access lift had been lowered automatically and he was instructed to secure one of his tiny feet in the loop.  
  
Being raised above the ground was breath-taking enough alone that he could almost be satisfied. Almost. The horizon was still back-lit by the setting sun, gleaming dully off the liger's armor. The hatch was already open and two of him could have fit in the seat, but the warrior let him buckle in and overrode the safety command, allowing the hatch to remain open when the zoid was in use.  
  
"Wanna try a few steps?" The warrior laughed as he nodded enthusiastically.  
  
Well worn leather seat under him, smooth control handles under his fingertips, a liquid motion of moving his arms and the controls in tandem, and he was in heaven. This was that moment of happiness, when there's the anticipation in his gut and he can't go fast enough to fill the need.  
  
With a gruff bark of amusement, the warrior clung tighter and watched his face closely.  
  
"Yer a natural, kid. You said you've been in one before?" He had to shout to be heard over the brisk night breeze.  
  
"I think. Don't really remember."  
  
"Must be in yer blood, then!"  
  
And they were silent for a while after that, caught up in the moment, and he never wanted it to end. He wanted to close the hatch and let loose across the tundra, leaving a billowing trail of dust in his wake and losing himself in the dark.  
  
A motion from the warrior, and he returned to camp, stopping a bit more awkwardly than he got going, but doing an admirable job for his first real time behind the controls. Returning to earth, though, was wont to be disappointing, and he swallowed nervously when he saw the silhouette of the headmistress at the fireside.  
  
There were angry words exchanged, a glance of disgust in his direction from the leader, and the grizzled warrior that had been so kind threw his arms up in frustration. He stood still, hoping they would forget his presence.  
  
"-Group needs disciplined children-"  
  
"-Handled it like a vet. I think-"  
  
"-Really is disciplined. We have strict rules here-"  
  
Around and around the argument went, and he was tense, afraid. They were shouting at points, points he could hear and pretended he didn't, and the headmistress didn't want him to stay, the leader didn't want him to leave, and there were children gathering in the doorway, staring and whispering again. He felt stupid for indulging himself, for thinking that his most closely held dream would be possible. Stupid for getting carried away with his happiness, stupid for believing he might have a place to belong, stupid for. . . . everything.  
  
And something in that moment, this moment, a moment, was let go.  
  
The headmistress was done placating, and smiling sweetly again. The leader was allowing her to simper and invite the men in for supper, while the warrior stalked off to the side. The headmistress ignored him, until a pointed look from the leader had her scurrying away. Making a show of concern, she hauled him off by his arm. He glanced at the warrior's face, read the regret there, and realized they had already chosen anyone they were going to take.  
  
The remainder of the thrill died slowly, its embers cooling as he was shoved at a few older children waiting inside the door and taken out back for a hiding by the cook, a gnarled old woman who spent more time shouting orders than making food.  
  
His back sore and red, the welts an oddly grounding sensation when juxtaposed with the heady feeling of a zoid moving beneath his hands, the vibration traveling up his feet, through his knees, and it was nothing like what he expected, but everything he expected and more. He realized with a sinking heart that he hadn't thought to ask him how he had become a warrior. He turned a cold shoulder to the children snickering at him from their bunks, and stared at the stars outside the warped glass panes of the window.  
  
He had touched heaven. He would find a way back, get his own zoid, even if he never had a team of his own.  
  
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End file.
